


Until It Sleeps

by Dragon_MoonX



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Chronic Illness, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Graphic Description, Nightmare Fuel, Parasitism, Self-Hatred, Strangulation, Teeth, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_MoonX/pseuds/Dragon_MoonX
Summary: Most people didn't realize the horrible truth, that Obscurials were often the source of their own destruction.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Until It Sleeps

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Реверс](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058774) by [fandomCredenceBarebones2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomCredenceBarebones2018/pseuds/fandomCredenceBarebones2018). 



> This story was inspired by a scene from Reverse, a Russian Fantastic Beasts fanfiction found on A03. Some of this was also inspired by a Super Mario World rom hack known simply as 'the (Coronation Day).
> 
> This is basically a darker, more realistic imagining of what it's like to be an Obscurial. Because if you do research on intestinal parasites, it describes symptoms such as tooth grinding, vomiting and weight loss. Add to that a touch of desperation and you've got a recipe for disaster.
> 
> I can't help wondering if J.K. Rowling took this into consideration when she designed Credence's character...

There were times when he forgot himself, lost track of where he was, risen from his bed in a cloud of billowing smoke. It was a numbing cold, spreading throughout his veins. He would watch it happening, helplessly trembling, darkening his blood. Blood that trickled past his lips, oozing from bruised and broken limbs. He had the ability to heal himself. He just wasn't aware of it at the time.

In a daze he wandered the endless city streets, in a haze he wondered why he felt so sick. At his core he was burning, ashes alight with the spark of inhumanity, a twisted worm that gnawed at his stomach.

Sometimes he would make himself vomit, forcing two fingers down his throat until he retched, expelling a dark, tar-like substance into the bathroom sink. These tangled strands stretched from his fingertips, his eyes widening at the sight, wanting to scream in absolute horror.

If it brought some semblance of peace, if he found relief... If it meant tearing open his flesh, forcing it out.

Sometimes he didn't have a choice, a shadowy figure enclosing his fragile form, his chest aching and burning. Sometimes it came in many forms, tangled sinews of festering sickness, turning to ash, dissolving into smoke, corroding his consciousness.

Staggering and dizzy, he found himself in Manhattan, shreds of tattered clothing dangling from his limbs. In the cold wind he shivered, his senses slowly returning, allowing him to feel the layer of grime that clung his skin.

It was gritty and wet, weighing him down, the garbage from the streets. Flecks of asphalt ground into his wounds, forced under his nails, a combination of blood and filth adhering to his face. He must look quite a sight, a wretched child, distantly aware of his own physical form.

He reached up and plucked a shred of newspaper from his matted hair. Turning it over in his hands, he realized the date was February tenth. The last he remembered it was still Friday, but the printed material said otherwise.

Two days. Where had he been? What had he done?

His mother was going to be furious with him.

Credence slumped against the side of a building, still holding the scrap of paper, staring at it in disbelief. If he couldn't bleed it out, if he couldn't regurgitate enough of it, what then? What would he become?

Silently, he began to weep. He would have to go home soon and face the wrath of his mother. But it would take some time, and a great amount of effort, before he could scrape himself off the wall, always leaving some part of himself behind.

These fluttering remnants followed him into the depths of the city, his breath steaming in the cold twilight. Pinpricks of light shown overhead, a scattering of stars, already fading.

He wished to leave it all behind. More than blood seeping into the earth, more than the contents of his stomach dripping down the wall. But this spectral entity must always chase him, entering where it was not welcome, flitting across the dusky city skies.

Alone, he lost track of the hours, exhaustion setting in as he collapsed against the double doors of the Second Salem church. His eyes rolled upwards, barely consciousness of the wooden surface pressed against his cheek. He was sliding downwards, deeper into darkness, into the very spaces betwixt the air itself.

This must be how it feels to let go of reality, disintegrating into nothingness. He imagined this would be how it felt when they discovered his remains, his soul in flight, escaping high above the city streets.

"Credence?" A voice spoke to him from somewhere close by.

The door cracked open, a sliver of sunlight spilling across the floor. Something inside of him stirred, twitching beneath his skin, and he groaned.

"Chastity?"

"Credence, are you alright?" His sister took a step back, standing with the door ajar. She was horrified by the sight of her brother's bruised and bloodied form, shadows filling the hollow spaces beneath his eyes. "Did you get in a fight?" she asked timidly, unable to hide the anxiety in her voice.

Credence swallowed hard, tasting blood on his tongue. "With myself," he rasped. He then slid past his younger sister, stepping inside and moving towards the staircase.

Chastity hesitated, lingering in the doorway as he made his way upstairs. She knew what was coming. It was something she'd witnessed far too many times, hiding the truth from their mother. What good would it do to tell her anyway? It's not as if Mary Lou cared enough to stop him. She might even encourage him, thinking it would rid him of his sins.

"Don't tell Modesty," Credence muttered, his sister hurrying along now, fearful of what he might do.

The floorboards creaked, one step groaning at a time. The rusted hinges on the bathroom door protested against the slightest movement, the noise echoing in the stillness of the hallway. These were the sounds that would haunt her, the soft whimpers from behind closed doors, the sound of running water, never enough.

It was never enough.

Steam rose from the faucet, the stench of vomit hanging in the air. Credence was terribly thin, his sunken cheeks a reminder of the meals he couldn't keep down. It wouldn't let him, and even when it did, Credence had been resorting to different methods, time and time again, until he vomited blood into the sink.

His sister had warned him of the consequences, told him what would happen if he kept this up. Credence tried not to think on it, seizing the toothbrush from a cup on the counter and applying a generous layer of paste to the bristles.

Though try as he might, there were still blackened particles sticking to his teeth. Minuscule, irritating, melting into gelatinous strings that trickled down the back of his throat. He scrubbed vigorously, tearing his gums and spitting out pinkish foam. That was when he felt something snap, the last of his milk teeth coming out in the sink.

It had been loose for nearly a week, but so had the others. It was all because of his excessive vomiting, his sister told him. And sure enough, when Credence gingerly touched his loosened molar with the tip of his tongue, it too tumbled out into the sink.

Little by little he was falling apart. He saw it in his reflection, in the eyes of a boy who had suffered more during his brief time on earth than most had in a single lifetime. He saw it and he hated what he had become. He hated his body, he hated himself, he hated everything. He would always be filthy, reeking of sin and begging for the punishment he deserved.

Credence ran his tongue over the jagged edges of his teeth, feeling flakes of enamel coming off, shards of bone that would stick in his throat. Then he saw it, a ripple of movement beneath his skin. It pulsed in time with his heart, bulging along old scars, threatening to split his flesh like the rotted hide of some festering corpse.

His gaze traveled downwards, ever so slowly, not wanting to see the horror that he had become. He was, without a doubt, a living nightmare, his own skin melting and oozing between his fingers, molten flesh burning black, dripping down the side of his face.

Terrified, Credence turned sharply, catching sight of his own reflection in the mirror. His features were hideously distorted, with smoke rising from the corners of his mouth and eyes, cocooning his body in twisted cords of perpetual darkness.

These silken strands stretched across his mouth and nose, smothering him with his own sickness. He pulled down suddenly, sharply, his mouth opening in a horrendous scream as he tore at the sides of his face. Blood ran into his eyes, dripping down his chin and spattering the counter.

There was the sound of fabric being torn, clothing ripped down the seams, thrown to the floor as he practically ran into the shower, attempting to flee from what was essentially himself.

Bleed it out, Credence thought, his chest heaving. Bleed it out before you suffocate.

He reached for the faded washcloth lying on the shower floor, fumbling with the bar of soap then started scrubbing, breaking the strands.

But it was never enough. For every severed cord there arose another, then two more, quickly multiplying as fragments of bone were shed. He didn't even realize that he ground his teeth in his sleep. This certainly didn't help. And now, clenching his jaw to prevent another scream from escaping his lungs, Credence felt the icy tendrils entering his nose and slithering down the back of his throat, splinters of decay snagging, catching on the sentient ooze.

Never enough... The heart, how it burns. The lungs aching, choking on parasitic worms that clog the delicate airways. Everything is on fire now, a pain that pierces, stabbing deeper, unrelenting.

With tears streaming down his face, Credence slumped against the bathroom wall, seized by a violent coughing fit, suffocating. He retched, bringing up blackened clots that resembled wet, raw chunks of liver. This thickened substance appeared to melt before his very eyes, joining the swirling scarlet fluid that circled the drain.

Given a moment to catch his breath, Credence inhaled deeply and forced himself to continue scrubbing, his legs raw, his thighs dripping blood onto the shower floor. It wasn't until the Obscurus reformed that his airway closed completely.

There was barely a sound when he let go of the washcloth, the muffled splatter of blood soaked cloth hidden by the bizarre, otherworldly noises issuing from the mouth of the Obscurus.

Its shadow towered above the host, horns larger than its head, sounds that weren't from this time. What a staggering sight. And at its core it burned with all the hatred and suffering it had endured, fueling a fire that Credence felt surging through his chest.

Unable to speak, the Obscurial sank to the floor, clutching his throat as scarlet fluid leaked from his nostrils. He could feel its hands closing around his neck, gripping tighter, seeking to destroy the vessel.

_'Please stop. I can't breathe.'_

In this way they had always communicated, speaking without a voice, without a single breath to spare. But the Obscurus simply observed the host, its eyes flashing menacingly, moving closer to the crimson fluid that spread across the floor.

 _'You smell so red. What did you do?'_ it asked casually, the glow of its eyes illuminating his face.

The noise sent vibrations coursing through the floorboards and walls, his head pounding as though the tuneless vibration were inside his skull, echoing off the boney structure and reverberating throughout his entire body.

Never enough... Easier to give in, succumbing to the sickness he had spawned.

' _My lungs hurt. Please take them out,'_ Credence silently begged, his flesh crawling as the parasitic worms burrowed beneath his skin. _'My throat is all closed up. Won't you please cut it open for me?'_

If it meant that he would die then perhaps it would be enough. Finally, it would be enough. Better to slip away then continue this fruitless struggle.

' _Oh, that look is precious,'_ the Obscurus crooned, its tendrils curling around the host, ensnaring him further. _'You'll make it big for sure. But it's time to go back now and show them who you really are. Show them, and perhaps I might have mercy.'_

 _'Mercy?'_ The host was failing now, his eyes bulging in their sockets, lips tinged blue, vision fading to black.

' _You offer me your lungs, so that I may feast upon your flowering organs. But_ _the answer lies on the collection of worlds. It simply goes from front to back. And until they know your secret, you will never be free.'_

With a shuddering gasp the host lost consciousness, the demon retreating, leaving him to lie in what remained of his humanity, bleeding his sins upon the floor.

.oOo.

It would be years before the secret was unearthed. Sifting through the ashes and the rubble, Percival Graves knew that he was close. But still the question remained - where?

When he found the Obscurial, he recognized the signs of abuse, saw it in the scars that laced his palms, the bruises that covered his skin. But the boy refused to smile, he had no reason to. And so one part of the mystery remained.

He did what he could for the unfortunate child, mending his wounds and offering a bit of comfort. Only in time would he discover the truth, uncovering a fate far worse than he ever could have imagined.

"Aurelius," a voice softly whispered, and the Obscurial lifted his head, gritting his teeth in pain.

There were several missing now. Five of them in number, the others visibly rotting, adding to his discomfort. Not that he seemed to complain about it much. He'd barely uttered a single word since regaining consciousness.

The dark wizard took him in his arms, cradling him like a newborn child. He then moved towards one of the elegant spiral staircases, carrying him to the upstairs bedroom and depositing him on a grand four poster bed.

Its sides were draped in hanging curtains of plush, ruby red fabric, the wooden beams painted gold. Rich velvet, the colors of the phoenix in bloom, far too luxurious for this poor child, so unused to such treatment.

And like a child the boy shied away, still unsure, still trembling in this strange environment. He allowed Grindelwald to stroke his cheek, to feel his forehead and ask a simple question.

"Can you control it, Aurelius?"

"Yes," Credence muttered, his voice hoarse. "But it's too late now. Look at what its done to me."

Grindelwald sighed wearily, running a hand through his silvery hair. The phoenix, perched upon the foot of the bed, gave voice to a mournful cry. But it didn't end there, because when Grindelwald unbuttoned Credence's shirt, he was greeted by the sight of more than a dozen scars, counting each one as easily as he could count the boy's ribs.

Starved perhaps, or perhaps there was more to this than meets the eye. Vaguely he recalled visiting his partner Albus and seeing Aberforth sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to spoon feed their sister some kind of greyish porridge. He remembered hearing the girl vomiting in the upstairs bathroom, almost constantly, as Albus put it, claiming that it came and went in cycles.

And now the youngest member of the Dumbledore family had come to him, just as frail, just as vulnerable and weak as his sister.

It would take time, as well as a fair amount of care and attention, restorative spells and healing potions before the Obscurial could be returned to his former state of health and well being.

Physically, the boy could be healed. His teeth could be regrown and his wounds could be mended. Emotionally, it would never be enough. Credence only wanted someone to hold him ... hold him until it sleeps. And even then the boy would still have nightmares.


End file.
